Category: Prose

“He was only for the joyous days, the days of courage, when she could share with him all the good things he brought with his passion for novelty and change. But he knew nothing of her; he was no companion to her sadness. He could never imagine anyone else’s mood, only his own. His own were so immense and loud, they filled his world and deafened him to all others. He was not concerned to know whether she could live or breathe within the dark caverns of his whale-like being, within the whale belly of his ego.”
― Anaïs Nin, Ladders to Fire

“All the trees in the world are journeying somewhere. Perpetual pilgrimage. Remember, when we were on our way here, to this city, the trees traveling past the windows of our railroad car? Remember the twelve poplars conferring about how to cross the river? Continue reading “Gods”

“A deleted scene refers to footage that has been removed, censored, or replaced in the final version of a film or television show.” In this case, my novel, Seahorse. I’d written this paragraph in its earliest draft, and it survived until final edits, shuffled here and there, tweaked and polished. And then it had to go. “Suggest cutting to make it more brisk,” marked my editor. Yet I felt a little sorrowful to hit Delete. So it’s gone from the manuscript. Here it has its own space.

An ordinary bookshelf made of dark wood, devoid of elegant carvings or an elaborately decorated plinth. In my mind it looms far above me. Although, I suspect, if I stood before it now, it would appear quite normal, perhaps even a tad small. Like walking into a house from childhood, and discovering the rooms aren’t as large as you’d always imagined, the ceiling not as high.

“My songs, lords of the lyre, which of the gods, what hero, what mortal shall we celebrate?” – Pindar

I remember the moment I discovered Nicholas’ disappearance as though it were yesterday. Although perhaps that’s not quite an accurate way to phrase it. Yesterday may be further away than two years past, than ten, or more. For instance, I can’t recall my supper a week ago, but that morning remains palpable on my tongue, like a wine I’ve sipped, and sipped so long it colours everything else on my palate.

January…

was filled with the wonder of a new place. Moving from London to a town by the sea. Settling into our new old flat with its long windows and small fireplace. Evening walks along an empty pier where the gravelly beach was all ours.